In the Ghetto
by BurningTyger
Summary: A young Han Solo witnesses a tragedy and makes a promise to himself. (Songfic.)


In the Ghetto  
Burning Tyger  
  
A/N: I know nothing about what Han's past was, so I'm making him an orphan. If ya don't like it, ya don't gotta.  
  
DISCLAIMER: Everything but Calen, Miria, and the computer on which this is written belongs to the god of flannel himself. And he shouldn't whine -- this is free publicity. We're doing him a FAVOR by writing these fanfics...  
  
Also, Mr. Davis and Mr. Presley get credit for the song.  
  
  
(Rated PG-13 for language. If you have ever looked in a public restroom stall, you have seen all these words before and they should not bother you THAT much.)  
  
  
As the snow flies  
On a cold and gray Corellian mornin'  
A poor little baby child is born  
In the ghetto  
And his mama cries  
  
~~  
  
A ten-year old boy, wiry and thin, sat with his chin on his knees in an alleyway. Calen had promised to meet him here. Calen would, of course, keep his promise. That was one of the few laws that street-kids never broke, and it was a law they'd made up themselves, anyhow.  
  
A djik rat poked its tiny nose out from under an overturned trash barrel, beady little blue-black eyes blinking at the newcomer across the narrow alley. The boy threw a rock in its direction, and the rat scampered away.  
  
Maybe Calen wasn't going to come after all...maybe They had gotten him. The boy shuddered. His education was erratic -- he could read, write (although not very grammatically), and put together a speederbike faster than mechanics twice his age -- and as such, he remembered no other word for Them. Maybe there had been a word once, but he had dismissed it as unnecessary. Other things were more important now.  
  
Things like survival. And that was why Calen had damned well better show up.  
  
"What's up?"  
  
Calen was here. That was good, because Calen was going to show him things. How to live out here on the streets, how to avoid Them and Detention, which was another fairly incomprehensible idea to him. He didn't want to get "picked up" because he knew how rarely those to whom that happened came back. No one knew where they went.  
  
"Hey, Solo, d'you go deaf?"  
  
That was another thing: they called him Solo now. His first name was Han, but no one seemed to care. Solo was a little tag they had added, because he was never found hanging around with the other "littl'uns," begging for food. He worked alone.  
  
"Nah, I can hear you all right," he answered finally, standing and looking up at Calen. Calen was twelve, with about four inches on Han. Calen's shock of bright-blond hair stood out from a face that had (for once) recently seen a basin. His eyes were just a shade greener than Han's hazel ones, and much more mischievous.  
  
Calen was an orphan, too, or so he said. When Han had asked him what an orphan was, Calen had replied, "You, kid. All alone, not a care in the world but for yourself. You're free." Put like that, being an orphan almost sounded nice. But Han knew the sting of looking in on a warm home, people laughing and eating -- he couldn't remember the last time he'd been really full. When he looked in, he knew he was missing something.  
  
~~  
  
'Cause if there's one thing that she don't need  
It's another hungry mouth to feed  
In the ghetto  
People don't you understand  
The child needs a helping hand  
Or he'll grow to be an angry young man someday  
Take a look at you and me   
Are we too blind to see,  
Do we simply turn our heads  
And look the other way?  
  
~~  
  
"Okay, today's lesson is pilfering."  
  
"Mildly illegal," Han put in colorlessly, as though it mattered. Laws were for Them, and their warm houses and families.  
  
"Yeah, mildly," Calen responded impatiently. "When you're older I'll teach you the *really* illegal stuff. See, the trick is to be cool, don't attract attention. If the owner is watching you, you'll never make it outside with your loot. Now we're going to the market, and you're gonna watch a master."  
  
"Oh? Who?" Han grinned slyly, following the older urchin.  
  
"Me, you stupid nerf," he shot back, grinning.  
  
"Why can't I stick with begging?"  
  
"Does it work anymore? How long was it since you got a decent meal by begging at doors?"  
  
Han recalled the past weeks. They were filled with hunger, shouts of "get a job, bum!" and the slamming of doors. No, begging was getting less and less profitable.  
  
"Okay, show me, 'Master.'"  
  
Calen stopped outside a fruit stand and motioned Han to stay where he was. When the seller turned away to give a customer an order, Calen reached out and one, two, three muja fruits came flying backwards at Han. With reflexes honed by streetlife, Han caught them all, then Calen was back beside him.  
  
"See? It's all in the timing," he muttered, taking one of the fruits. "You try," he added, through a mouthful of muja.  
  
Han didn't think it was a particularly big deal -- Calen had made it look so easy! Han crept up to the stand and waited for the shopkeeper to turn. When he did, Han reached for a muja fruit and made to toss it over his shoulder. The fruit caught for just a moment, then came to his hand easily...as half the stock rolled down with it.  
  
His cover blown, the fruit-seller spun around, shouting what appeared to be profanities in another language. Calen jumped up and grabbed Han's hand. "Lesson number two!" he shouted over his shoulder. "Know how -- and where -- to run!"  
  
He cut off into an alleyway and the plump merchant stormed right past them. Calen waited until he was gone, then offered Han one of the successfully pinched fruits. "Okay, we'll move on to another fruit stand. This time, I want you to..."  
  
  
Well the world turns  
And a hungry little boy with a runny nose  
Plays in the street as the cold wind blows  
In the ghetto  
And his hunger burns  
So he starts to roam the streets at night  
And he learns how to steal  
And he learns how to fight  
In the ghetto  
  
  
So Calen taught, and Han learned as much as he could. They went from pilfering to pickpocketing, and from there on to fighting with fists and hands. When Han was fifteen, Calen began to teach him how to use a blade.  
  
"I'm gonna get out of here," the older boy would confide, his eyes gleaming in whatever fire they had managed that night. "Steal myself a ship, and get the hell off this rock."  
  
Han always wanted to ask, "And then what?" but he never did. Calen would think of that when the time came.  
  
That year, a new orphan joined their little "band." Her name was Miria, and while she might have been a year Han's junior (he was sixteen by that time), she was no child. Han suspected that Miria was sharing Calen's bed -- or what passed for a bed on the streets -- but he kept his ideas to himself. It wouldn't do to piss Calen off, and besides...Calen might think he was jealous. And of course he wasn't.  
  
Was he?  
  
Han had never 'been' with a girl. Calen always said 'been' rather than 'slept' or 'had sex with' or any of the other more derogatory terms for it. It sounded almost refined. Still, the fact remained that Han had done none of the above. At sixteen, the Solo one had always slept that way. Someday, though, it would be different.  
  
Someday, but not yet.  
  
~~~~~~~  
  
Calen showed up one morning, same time as usual, but alone, and judging by the expression on his face, something must have gone horribly wrong.  
  
"Calen?"  
  
His eyes were somewhat glazed, and Han wasn't quite sure that Calen could see him. He noticed that Calen's fists were clenched, and there was blood on his hands. He had dug his fingernails into his hand until his palms bled.  
  
"They got her," he whispered. "Miria. She wanted a blaster, so we were taking one and They..." Han knew what was coming next. "They shot her."  
  
"Oh fuck," he said slowly, shocked. "Calen, I...I'm so sorry."  
  
"Fuck your sympathy!" Calen whirled on him, and there were tears in his eyes. He wanted Miria back, but he didn't say that. It would come out like a line from a really bad holovid, and even though it was so true, he wouldn't say it.  
  
"She isn't going to come back," Han said, in the gentlest way he could. "I know how you -"  
  
"You don't! It wasn't just physical, she was...oh, stars she was *everything!*" He turned away, preparing to scream up at the sunlight. Looking up into the morning, a realization struck him coldly. "She'll never see the sunrise again," he whispered harshly.  
  
Then he fled.  
  
Han looked for him the entire day. He tried all their usual haunts, their 'hunting grounds,' the cantinas in which they could sometimes get a drink. Nobody had seen him, and he didn't notice any especially irate merchants, so Calen hadn't been around the markets.  
  
It was nine o'clock when he collapsed on a curb, exhausted and shivering with despair. Calen was going to do something rash; Han knew he would.  
  
~~  
  
Then one night in desperation  
A young man breaks away  
He buys a gun, steals a car,  
Tries to run, but he doesn't get far  
And his mama cries  
  
~~  
  
A detachment of Them was standing nearby, eyeing him somewhat suspiciously. Han resisted the strong urge to give them the finger. He couldn't get himself arrested; if he had to help Calen out of trouble, things were going to get sticky enough.  
  
The sky had just gone purple when a comm one of Them had began to beep. Whether it was instinct or just apprehension, Han knew it was about Calen.  
  
"Assault and robbery -- young male -- tall -- blond -- armed with a BlasTech DL-18 and driving a stolen speeder, license number...repeat, suspect is armed."  
  
Through the static, Han heard enough. Calen had flipped, and he'd tried to carry out his getaway plan without thinking. "Stupid nerf, he's going to get himself *killed*!"  
  
Which, he realized, was most likely what Calen intended.  
  
He had to find a way to catch up to Calen before They did...because They would kill him, and without him, Han didn't know what he was going to do.  
  
Ten minutes later, the comm unit on one of Their speederbikes crackled again. "Suspect in robbery and assault heading in your direction, contingent. Please detain unless threatened."  
  
One of Them swore. "Man, we're fuckin' traffic cops -- there ain't nothin' in the job description 'bout takin' on armed suspects."  
  
"If he's armed, he's getting shot," his companion decided grimly. "I'm not risking my life for a petty thief. Not like there are any witnesses..." He glared over in Han's direction, "...at least not credible ones."  
  
Han would later on identify that as 'the corruption inherent in the system,' but right now he had other things on his mind.  
  
Their comm gave a final word. "Headed right for you now, ETA one-point-two-five minutes."  
  
They killed the engines on their speederbikes and knelt behind them, blasters drawn. Han chose this moment to sidle back into an alleyway. He didn't want to be in the middle of this.  
  
Calen was going to die! Han wracked his brain for a solution -- even something that would give him more time, but the only idea he came up with was to charge Them, and two adults with blasters cocked seemed a bit formidable for a sixteen-year-old. He was powerless, and he hated it.  
  
No more time to think -- the sound of a speeder at far too high of a speed came faintly to his ears, increasing by the second. He glared over at Them, wishing he was a Jedi or something and could yank the blasters from Their hands. Damn Them!  
  
Calen swerved into view, a blaster in his hand. If he didn't slow down, he was going to run himself into a brick wall and save Them the trouble of shooting him.  
  
He was closer now, and Han could see the expression on his face. Rather, it was the lack thereof that chilled him so. Calen had the grim look of a man with nothing left to lose. Han couldn't have known that he would wear that look on his own face more than once in his life.  
  
But fate would be kinder to him than to Calen. Han watched as They crouched behind their bikes, and he saw two triggers fire at once...he never did see which bolt hit Calen, or if both did.  
  
Calen jerked from the impact, losing his balance and tumbling off the speeder. The speeder crashed into the building across from Han and exploded in a fireball.  
  
As he fell, there was an expression similar to triumph his face. Then he hit the ferrocrete.  
  
~~  
  
As a crowd gathers 'round an angry young man  
face down on the street with a gun in his hand  
In the ghetto  
As her young man dies,  
on a cold and gray Corellian mornin',  
another little baby child is born  
In the ghetto  
  
~~  
  
Han stood there petrified as people gathered around, trying to see who had killed whom. He angrily wiped away tears he hadn't know he'd shed, and made himself a promise.  
  
He was going to get out of here -- before They got him, too.  



End file.
